By Order of the President

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Okay,” he said. “Have them make the arrangements.”

  “I’ve already done that, sir. I’m on a Lufthansa flight to Rhine-Main tonight.”

  “You have to go through Frankfurt?”

  “I want to give my boss at the Tages Zeitung a heads-up that he’s sending me to Luanda,” Charley said. “Then London to Angola on British Airways.”

  “You think that’s necessary? Going as . . . what’s your name?”

  “Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger,” Castillo said.

  “That’s a mouthful. No wonder I can’t remember it.”

  “Sir, I had the feeling that you really wanted me to be the fly on the wall on this job. That’s the best way to do it, sir, I submit, as a German journalist.”

  “The less anyone knows what you’re doing, Charley, the better. There’s no sense in having it get out the president ordered this unless it has to come out.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Anything I can do for you before you go?” Hall asked, and then had a thought. “How are you going to get a visa for Angola on such short notice?”

  “That’s my next stop, sir, the Angolan embassy.”

  Hall stood up and put out his hand.

  “If you were going as my assistant, I know the Angolan ambassador and could give him a call. But he would ask questions if asked a favor for Wilhelm Whatsisname, a German journalist.”

  “I don’t have to go as Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger, sir,” Castillo said. “But I think it makes more sense.”

  “So do I,” Hall said. “Have a nice flight, Charley. You know how to reach me; keep me in the loop—quietly. And good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  [FIVE]

  Embassy of the Republic of Angola 2100-2108 16th Street NW Washington, D.C. 1520 31 May 2005

  “It was very good of you to see me, sir, on such short notice,” Castillo said to the very tall, very black man in the consular section.

  He was speaking in what he hoped was good enough Portuguese to be understood. His Texican and Castilian Spanish —actually, a combination thereof—had worked for him well enough in São Paulo, Brazil, but this man was from a Portuguese-speaking African country and that was something different.

  The black man smiled at him and asked, in English, “How can the Angolan embassy be of service to a Spanish-speaking German journalist?”

  “I was afraid my limited experience with your language would be all too transparent, sir,” Castillo said.

  “How may I help you?”

  “My newspaper wants me to go to Luanda and write a story about the airplane no one seems to be able to find,” Castillo said. “And I need a visa. I have all the documents I understand I need.”

  He began to lay documents on the man’s desk.

  They included his German passport, and three photocopies thereof; two application forms, properly filled out; a printout of an e-mail he had sent himself from Texas, ostensibly from the Tages Zeitung, ordering him to get to Luanda, Angola, as quickly as he could in order to write about the missing 727, as Herr Schneider is ill and cannot go; his curriculum vitae, stating he had earned a doctorate at Phillip’s University, Marburg an der Lahn, and had been employed by the Tages Zeitung as a writer and lately foreign correspondent for the past nine years; and his White House press credentials.

  And a one-hundred-dollar bill, almost hidden by all of the above.

  As soon as he had spread the documents out, he found it necessary to blow his nose and politely turned away from the consular official to do so.

  When he turned back, approximately twenty seconds later, the consular official was studying the documents. The one-hundred-dollar bill was nowhere in sight.

  “There are some documents missing, Mr. Gossinger,” the consular official said, politely. “Your proof of right of residency in the United States, for example.”

  “With all respect, sir,” Castillo said, “I thought my White House press credentials might satisfy that requirement. They really wouldn’t let me into the White House if I wasn’t legally in the United States. And you’ll notice, sir, I hope, that my passport bears a multiple-entry visa for the United States.”

  The consular officer studied the German passport.

  “So it does,” he agreed. “Perhaps that will satisfy that requirement. But there are some others.” He paused. “Will you excuse me a moment, please?”

  He walked out of the office. Castillo took another hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and put it in his passport, which concealed all but one edge of the bill. He laid the passport back on the table, mostly—but not completely— under the stack of documents. The numerals “100” were visible.

  A minute later, the consular official came back into his office. Castillo felt the need to blow his nose again and did so. When he turned back to the table thirty seconds later, the passport was now on top of the stack of documents but the one-hundred-dollar bill was nowhere in sight.

  “Well, you have most of the documents you’ll need,” the consular official said, “except of course for your return ticket, and the written statement that you understand you will have to abide by the laws of the Republic of Angola, and, of course, the Portuguese translations of your curriculum vitae, the e-mail from your newspaper, and— since I find your White House press credentials satisfactory proof that you reside legally in the United States—the Portuguese translation of those.”

  “It is here, sir, that I turn to you for understanding and help,” Castillo said.

  “And how is that?”

  “I don’t have my airline tickets,” Castillo said. “They are electronic tickets and I will pick them up when I get to Heathrow Airport.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “The day after tomorrow, sir.”

  “So soon?”

  “So soon. This is an important story and they want me to get on it now.”

  “That’s so soon.”

  Castillo took a small wad of currency from his pocket, three one-hundred-dollar bills, and held them in his hand.

  “I realize that this is asking a good deal of you, sir, but if you could see your way to having those documents translated into Portuguese—I realize that will be expensive—and perhaps be so kind as to call British Airways yourself to verify that I have a return ticket . . .”—he laid the three one-hundred -dollar bills on the consul’s desk— “. . . This should be enough, I think, for the translations.”

  After thirty seconds, the consul picked up the German passport, opened it to a blank page, took a rubber stamp from his desk, stamped the passport, and then scrawled his signature on the visa.

  “We try to be as cooperative as possible when dealing with the press,” he said, handing Castillo the passport. “The visa is for multiple entries into the Republic of Angola. Have a nice flight, Mr. Gossinger.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for your courtesy, sir,” Castillo said, offering the consul his hand.

  What I have done, in addition to spending five hundred of my own money, which I will never be able to claim as a reimbursable necessary expense, is violate at least three separate provisions of the United States Code having to do with the making of, or offering to make, a bribe to an official of a foreign government.

  On the other hand, I’m on my way to Luanda, Angola.

  [SIX]

  The Mayflower Hotel 1127 Connecticut Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1650 31 May 2005

  Fernando Lopez was sitting at a table by a window in the bar when Castillo walked in and slipped into the other chair.

  “I would offer you a pistachio,” Fernando said, pointing at a bowl, “but I seem to have eaten the whole thing.”

  “Bored? Sorry, I got hung up.”

  “I am never bored when there are interesting-looking females around. Now I know why you live here.”

  “There’s supposed to be more women in Washington than men,” Castillo said. “But I’m not sure if that’s true.”

 
; A waiter appeared.

  “What are you drinking?” Castillo asked.

  “Unless you desperately need a jolt,” Fernando said, “I’d rather go to your room.”

  “Sure, I can wait,” Castillo said, and then to the waiter added, “Check, please.”

  “Last of the big spenders?”

  “If you pay for it, Maria will get the bill and know that you were boozing it up in the big city.”

  “No, she won’t. My bills go to the company.”

  “Then Jacqueline will know.”

  “But she won’t tell Maria,” Fernando said. “Grandpa trusted her discretion completely, and I’ve learned I can, too.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Castillo said. “I always thought she was sweet on Grandpa. I’m not too sure how she feels about you.”

  “You really think Jackie had the hots for Don Fernando?” Fernando asked, smiling.

  The question was never answered. The waiter appeared, Castillo scrawled his name on the check, and they walked out of the bar and into the lobby.

  “What are we going to do about dinner?” Fernando asked when he came out of the bathroom, pulling up his zipper, in Castillo’s suite.

  “First, before I have to make an important decision like that, I’m going to have a drink. And I’ll even make you one if you promise to stay sober for the next hour or so.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because I need to talk to you.”

  “About what? You in some kind of trouble?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am. I need to talk to you, Fernando.”

  “You don’t really talk to me, you tell me misleading half-truths. ”

  “I thought maybe you’d noticed. What do you want to drink?”

  “I’ve been drinking scotch, but if you’re in trouble maybe we better not.”

  “It’s not that kind of trouble. I’m still waiting to hear if a rabbit in New York died, but aside from that . . .”

  “You sonofabitch!” Fernando said, chuckling.

  Castillo handed him a drink and then sat down in an armchair facing Fernando’s across a coffee table. They raised glasses, locked eyes for a moment, and then took swallows.

  “You were telling me about this lady who seduced you in New York,” Fernando said. “Or was it rape?”

  “I wish it was that simple,” Castillo said.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I realized a while back that I was getting to the point where I didn’t know who I was. Or am. I don’t know how to say it. I told you, this isn’t simple.”

  “Try. I’m not really as dumb as Maria would have you believe.”

  “That ID card I showed the guard at Baltimore-Washington? ”

  “What about it? It impressed the guard.”

  Castillo reached in his pocket and came out with the leather wallet and tossed it to Fernando.

  Fernando failed to catch it and had to pick it up. He opened it and looked at it carefully.

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “ ‘Department of Homeland Security.’ ‘United States Secret Service.’ ‘Supervisory Special Agent.’ I thought you were still in the Army.”

  “I am. And I’m not in the Secret Service,” Castillo said. “I got that because it was the easiest way for me to carry a pistol—or anything else—onto an airplane. And that ID calls the least attention to me when I do.”

  “You often do that? Carry a gun?”

  “I don’t often carry one, but I usually have one around close. It says ‘Supervisory Special Agent’ instead of just ‘Special Agent’ in case I run into a real Secret Service agent and his hair stands up—they’re good; they can spot people who aren’t what their credentials say they are. There’s a double safeguard against that in there. First, they probably wouldn’t want to stick their necks out and question a supervisory special agent. But if they do, there’s a code on there. If they call a regional office and ask if there really is a supervisory special agent named Castillo and give the code, they’re told I’m legitimate and to butt out right now. It’s happened twice.”

  “So you’re not really the . . . what did that calling card say? ‘The Executive Assistant to the Director of Homeland Security’?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “You just said you were still in the Army.”

  “And I am. Getting the picture, Fernando? When I said I was getting confused about who I really am?”

  “I’m pretty confused, Gringo.”

  “Try living it,” Castillo said. “Okay. Let’s start with the Army. I’m a major, just selected for promotion—which means that I go on the bottom of a list. When some Special Forces lieutenant colonel retires, or gets dead or promoted, and there is a space for one more lieutenant colonel, the top man on the list gets promoted. Eventually, I work my way up to the top of the list and become Lieutenant Colonel Castillo.”

  “Are congratulations in order?”

  “That may take a while. I’ll let you know when it happens and you can buy me a drink.”

  “You just said Special Forces. I thought you were Aviation. ”

  “I was commissioned into Aviation when I graduated from West Point . . .”

  “I was there, remember? I was still an Aggie cadet, and I wanted that dollar you had to give me when I was the first one to salute you. I got it framed. It’s in my office.”

  “I was commissioned into Aviation because of my father. Into what other branch of service could I go?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “General Naylor wasn’t so sure about that,” Castillo said. “He thought I had the potential to be an armor officer.”

  “Hey, Gringo. Me too. I remember our first trip to Fort Knox. That’s when his sales pitches started. He thinks he’s your stepdaddy, and that makes me his nephew.”

  “Anyway, full of West Point piss and Tabasco I embarked on what I thought was going to be my career as an Army Aviator. I spent most of my graduation leave taking the ATR exams. Remember?”

  “I remember. I didn’t quite understand why you wanted an airline transport rating if you were going to be flying in the Army . . .”

  “I wanted to be prepared. What occurred to me lately is that that’s when all this bending of the rules started.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brand-new second lieutenants don’t go right to flight school. They spend a couple of years learning how to run a platoon in the Infantry or laying in cannon in the Artillery. Or driving tanks. I don’t suspect for a second that General Naylor had anything at all to do with me being sent to Fort Knox for my initial assignment . . .”

  “That’s because you know he doesn’t like you, right?” Fernando chuckled. “Jesus, he came to College Station and gave me a sales pitch to go in Armor that wouldn’t quit. He made it clear to me that if our sacred ancestors only had a couple of tanks at the Alamo, we really would have kicked Santa Anna’s ass all the way back to Mexico City.”

  “So you went in Armor when you finished A&M, and you learned all about the M1 Abrams, right?”

  “Right. And I finished that just in time to get my ass shipped to Desert Storm.”

  “And I was supposed to be there, doing the same thing, but I wasn’t, right?”

  “They found a vacancy for you in flight school at Fort Rucker, as I recall.”

  “They made one. ‘Son of Medal of Honor Recipient Enters Flight School.’ Looks good in the newspapers. I had my picture taken with the post commander the day I arrived. I couldn’t have flunked out of flight school if I wrecked every aircraft on Cairns Army Airfield.”

  “Well, so what? You could fly when you got there.”

  “You’re supposed to forget all that and start with: ‘This is a wing. Because of less pressure on its upper surface, it tends to rise in the air taking with it whatever it’s attached to.’ ”

  Fernando laughed.

  " ’And this is a helicopter,’ ” Castillo went on. “ ‘It is different from an airplane becaus
e the wings go round and round.’ ”

  Fernando chuckled and, smiling fondly, shook his head. “I was there about three weeks, I guess, and I fell asleep in class. Basic radio procedure or something. I’d been out howling the night before. With a magnolia blossom named Betty-Sue or something. Unsuccessfully, as I remember. Betty-Sue was holding out for marriage. Anyway, the instructor, a lieutenant, stood me tall: ‘Are you bored in this class, Lieutenant?’

  “Well, the answer to that was, ‘Hell, yes, I’m bored,’ but I couldn’t say that. So I thought about what I could say.

  “ ‘I asked you a question, Lieutenant!’ he pursued.

  “So I said, ‘Sir, with respect, yes, sir, I am a little.’

  “That was in the days when I really believed ‘When all else fails, tell the truth.’ I wish I still did.

  “Anyway, he puffed up like a pigeon and asked why. And I told him I had an ATR and knew how to work the radios. I don’t think he believed me. He kicked me out of class. Told me to go to my BOQ and stay there.

  “The next morning, I was summoned before a bird colonel. I wasn’t as good at reading the brass as I am now, but I could tell he was nervous. He was dealing with the son of a Medal of Honor winner, a graduate of Hudson High, who had lied.

  “He said, ‘Lieutenant, did you tell Lieutenant Corncob-Up -His-Ass that you hold an Airline Transport Rating?’

  “ ‘Yes, sir, I did,’ I said, and showed it and my logbook to him.

  “I could tell he was relieved.

  “He said, ‘Eleven hundred hours? Two hundred in rotary wing? Lieutenant, why didn’t you bring this to our attention? ’

  “ ‘Sir, nobody asked me.’ ”

  Fernando chuckled and took a pull at his drink.

  “So, cutting a long story short, I was sent back to the BOQ and that afternoon they took me out to Hanchey, where an IP gave me a check ride in a Huey. I blew his mind when I said I’d never flown one with only one engine before, my Huey time was in . . .”

  “ ‘The twin-engine models used by Rig Service Aviation of Corpus Christi’?” Fernando interrupted, laughing. “Oh, Jesus, they must have loved you!”

  “Shortly thereafter, I found myself wearing wings, and rated in U.S. Army UH-1F rotary wing aircraft,” Castillo went on. “And enrolled in Phase IV, which was transition to the Apache. The General himself came out to Hanchey when I passed my final check ride and shook my hand while the cameras clicked . . .”